


Blood Chocolate (so pretentious)

by Renoku



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Derek in pajamas, Domestic Fluff, Family, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Snow, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, references, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renoku/pseuds/Renoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“My mother’s Christmas dinner is this evening,” Derek says, and those words really should not have that effect on Stiles’ stomach.</i><br/><i>Not that he’s really paying attention.  “Mm?” he questions. “Yeah, I’m going to be there, like every year. So?”</i><br/><i>Derek closes his eyes, and Stiles swears he can see that blush coming back. He holds his breath again, as Derek inhales deeply.  The werewolf’s mouth starts to twitch at the corners, and when he speaks through his small smirk, his words are nearly a whisper and his breath brushes over Stiles’ face.</i><br/><i>“I forgot to make anything.”</i><br/><i>Stiles blinks. Then realization downs on him as if the snow outside had just crashed into a blizzard.</i><br/><i>“Holy shit, she’s going to kill you!” he cries.</i><br/>+++++<br/>Or: Stiles really wasn't expecting to have to deal with his crush at ass o'clock in the morning to help him get ready for a Christmas party.  Well, he wasn't expecting everything else to happen either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Chocolate (so pretentious)

**Author's Note:**

> So originally this was gonna be hella longer, and a lot more angsty, but then I realized I sighed up for two fics for 12 Days of Sterek and that I had no real plot planned for the other one (which will be posted later this week). So voilà, this one is shorter, happier, and generally just fluff.
> 
> Derek might seem OOC, and I hope he doesn't, but I'm trying to consider the fact that NONE OF HIS FAMILY DIED IN A FIRE AND HE NEVER DATED KATE so... I just think he'd be a little happier. I don't think I mentioned it, but in my mind for this verse, Derek did date Paige, and Paige did die, so he is dealing with that angst. But this time around, he wasn't taken advantage of, so there's that. I might add more to this verse, who knows. Who ever knows, really.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! :) Please leave a comment below, and Happy Holidays!
> 
> Also, check out the [12 Days of Sterek](12daysofsterek.tumblr.com) blog and reblog the post from there!

The pounding on the door sounds loud, frantic, and altogether desperate enough that any annoyance Stiles holds at being woken up at five in the morning is replaced by nervous worry. He stumbles down the hall in the dark, flailing for a light switch.  He finds it just as he reaches the front door, and the light above him floods the hallway. Stiles curses as spots bloom in front of his vision just before he trips.  He pitches forward, his head meeting the front door with an audible thump. Groaning pitifully, he sinks to the floor, tiredly rubbing dark spots from his eyes.

“Stiles?” a voice calls though the door, laced with concern and all too familiar. Stiles recognizes it immediately, even through his now-dulling headache, and he groans even louder. Screw anxiety; now he’s just annoyed. “Stiles, are you alright?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Stiles mutters, and he knows that it’s not nearly quiet enough to escape the hearing of the man outside.

“Stiles,” repeats the voice – and there’s that exasperated deadpan that Stiles knows so well – lacking any of the previous worry.  With another exaggerated groan, Stiles pushes himself off the floor and opens the door.

“What the hell do you want at—” he glances back at the hall clock ticking by the kitchen door “—five o’ seven in the morning, Derek?”

The werewolf at least has the decency to look sheepish.  Although, that could just be his disheveled, sleep-mussed hair. He definitely still seems to get that unamused glare down.  But the more Stiles looks at him – taking in the thin wifebeater, the snow covering his bare shoulders, sprayed through his hair and scruffed-up beard, his flannel plants (no more useful than the wifebeater, and in the dead of winter, really), and—

“Oh my god, are you in your pajamas?” Stiles exclaims.  “It’s snowing!  Oh my god, Derek, you’re not even wearing shoes!  What the hell, you idiot?  Come on, get inside—”

With massive amounts of flailing gestures and half-swipes at the snow on Derek’s clothes, Stiles shuffles the man in through to the kitchen, forcing him down onto a chair before going off to find something to dry the werewolf off with. He’s almost surprised to find Derek still in the chair when he returns with a bath towel.  The obedience only belies the man’s protests, however:

“Stiles, I’m fine, seriously—”

The younger man interrupts him by wrapping the towel around his shoulders and scrubbing the snow off. Hard.  “Listen, Sourwolf.  I don’t care if you’re a goddamn werewolf, you still shouldn’t be out in the snow—”

“So? You can still get sick. Remember what happened to Scott last spring—”

“Scott’s an idiot.”

Stiles responds by using the towel to cover Derek’s face.  “Don’t talk about your packmates that way.  It’s rude.  Whatever – the point is, this is not proper weather for going out in your pajamas – and barefoot—”

“I think—” Derek sputters through the cold cloth over his mouth, “I think that my fashion choices—”

“Are very tragic, yes. Not the point. No matter how advanced your special little ‘wolfy healing powers’ are, I don’t think the biological insurance policy includes limbs lost to frostbite!”

“Stiles, would you just—” Derek grabs Stiles by the wrists and tugs the towel down to his lap. His face is flushed red from the scrubbing, dark beneath his stubble, and extremely close to Stiles’ own. “I’m fine,” he says, and his warm breath fans across Stiles’ cheeks.  His hazel eyes dart between the human’s, the lingering strains of annoyance fading. He continues, “For now, I need your help.”

Stiles swallows. His breath catches in his throat as he searches Derek’s face.  The blush across his skin is fading, but is replaced by the natural warmth that always rests in his body.  Stupid werewolves. Of course he’d never get frostbite, probably not even in the Arctic.  Screw the light snowfall outside.

Stiles becomes distracted as his eyes dart down to Derek’s mouth, and he wets his own as he looks back up to the man’s eyes.  “Yeah?” he says.

Derek’s voice sounds like a low grumble, almost warm in the close proximity.  “My mother’s Christmas dinner is this evening,” he says, and those words really should not have that effect on Stiles’ stomach.

Not that he’s really paying attention.  “Mm?” he questions. “Yeah, I’m going to be there, like every year. So?”

Derek closes his eyes, and Stiles swears he can see that blush coming back. He holds his breath again, as Derek inhales deeply.  The werewolf’s mouth starts to twitch at the corners, and when he speaks through his small smirk, his words are nearly a whisper and his breath brushes over Stiles’ face.

“I forgot to make anything.”

Stiles blinks. Then realization downs on him as if the snow outside had just crashed into a blizzard, and he leaps up as if the blizzard had just crashed through the roof, cold and shocking up his spine and snapping him back to reality.

“Holy shit, she’s going to kill you!” he cries.

Despite himself, Derek laughs.  “Not if Laura doesn’t first,” he says as he stands from the chair.

“What are you going to do?”

Derek suddenly becomes serious.  He grips Stiles’ shoulders, pulling the man to look him in the face.  “I don’t know,” he says.  He releases Stiles to gesture around at the world in general. “I was supposed to bring a cake! I don’t know how to bake!”

“That’s a lie,” Stiles protests.  “You literally bake all the time, dude.  You made that cake for Kira’s nineteenth last month!”

“I don’t know how to bake a three-tiered cake.”

“Wha–” that stops Stiles, but only for a second.  “Well,” he says, “did you try ordering in to the supermarket?  That – What about that bakery across the street from that Starbucks?  You know that one by the school?”

Derek levels Stiles with a flat look.  “Stiles, this is my mother we’re talking about.”  True. But Stiles remains unimpressed, and eventually Derek groans.  “Yes, I did! And I even asked those wedding planners downtown if they had any wrong orders I could take, but _no_ , they’re ‘ _too good for wrong orders_ ’, and everyone else either can’t make the order in the time or they’re closed for Christmas!”

“Were they those planners that messed up the flower bouquets for Allison’s engagement party last summer?”

“Yes.”

“I hate those guys!”

“Stiles,” says Derek. “Focus.”

Stiles groans, scribing a hand down the side of his face.  “Why does it even need to have three tiers?”  He means, for other than all the werewolves they have to feed.

Derek scowls. “Laura,” he spits out, as if it answers everything.  Which, in a way, it does.  “Please, Stiles,” he says – and, is that?  Is Derek really begging? He _is_. “You’re the only other person in the pack that can actually bake and know what he’s doing. I’m not going to Scott or Cora again.”

Both he and Stiles shudder as if on cue, remembering the mess from the lacrosse team’s bake sale in junior year.  (Although, it was still up for debate whether or not the Nogitsune Incident had anything to do with that. Either way, they shudder.”

“Or Erica,” Stiles adds. He sighs, running his fingers through his hair again.  “Did you try calling Boyd?” he asks.

Something in Derek’s face closes off.  Not unlike he’s just thought of something unpleasant; his eyebrows do that thing where they knit together, and his eyes kind of look down, as if… disappointed? Sad, maybe?  And it leaves Stiles wondering what trap he’s just verbally stumbled into.

“Did you… not want to help?” Derek asks.

What. “Um, no,” Stiles replies, scratching at his neck and lengthening his words to question Derek’s five-in-the-morning sanity.  “I never sad that. Boyd’s just better at baking, you know? He bakes, I cook, and kind of how you all survived high school?  Besides, your mom, I mean.  But the job would be a lot easier if he were here too.”

Derek doesn’t look up, but Stiles can see some of that weird tension leaving his shoulders. And is it just him, or are the werewolf’s ears turning red at the tips?  “Uh,” Derek coughs.  “He’s with Erica. When I called.”

Oh. Well.  That explained the blushing.

Those two needed serious lessons in proper phone etiquette.

Stiles’ hands come together with a loud clap.  “Alright, what’s the plan?”

Derek’s head snaps up, eyes wide.  “What?”

“Dude,” Stiles says, “I told you I’m helping you.”  Seriously, Stiles is the _last_ person that’s going to resist a Derek in need.  “So what’s the plan?  Three-tiered cake, sure. I’ve got the pans, I think. And I’m sure I’ve got some – hold on—”

He turns around to rummage through the pantry.  He’s aware of Derek staring at him dumbly the entire time, but ignores it as he rambles on.

“What flavors do you want? I’ve got some chocolate powder stuff here, and jug of vanilla.  But I don’t think people use that much vanilla in anything really. Especially for werewolves. Do you even like vanilla? I mean, actual vanilla, not that weird flavoring that they put in yellow cake.  Or is that actual vanilla too?  If it is, then that answers my question, because that’s what you made for Kira, and you at three slices – whatever.”  Cutting of train of unfiltered consciousness, Stiles pulls himself out of the pantry, still avoiding Derek’s gaze.  “Um, I think there’re definitely some strawberries in the fridge. Unless my dad tried to throw them out again – because he hates fruits, apparently.  I don’t understand why, though!  He doesn’t even have to cook them!  They’re nature’s freaking candy, he really should take what he can. Derek?  Are you listening to me?”  Stiles knows he isn’t, considering he’s still staring at Stiles like he’s an alien – he should really be used to it by now – so he whips around, ready to snap his fingers.

The sight of Derek’s blazing blue eyes stop him, however.

“Derek?” Stiles asks. The man appears frozen, but then his nostrils flare and his jaw works itself open.  Stiles proceeds with the snapping of the fingers. “Derek, you alright?”

Derek’s hand shoots up, grabbing Stiles by the wrist.  Stiles definitely does not yelp, not at all.  He’s too busy staring at Derek, who tugs him close. Stiles hits Derek’s chest with both hands up, pressed up against the washboard that is Derek’s abs beneath his wifebeater _that he sleeps in_. Stiles is rigid, and he’s resisting the really strong urge to breath through his nose, because he’s just too close to _all that_ , and long story short it’s probably just _really not a good idea_.

“Derek?” he squeaks.

The man’s eyes slowly slide shut, almost fluttering, as if in a trance.  He takes a deep breath that Stiles feels against his own, expanding against his heartbeat that’s pounding like a freaking cannon. Derek’s grip on Stiles’ wrist tightens for just a moment.  When he opens his eyes again, they’re back to their usual shade of weird hazel, and his jaw snaps shut.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice a steady murmur.  “For helping me.”

Stiles swallows. “No problem, dude,” he says, and god _damn_ his voice is shaking. “We’re pack.  What flavors do you want?”

Derek takes another breath before releasing Stiles’ arm.  He walks past Stiles – who is still very, _extremely_ , stunned – to look in the pantry.  “Do you have food coloring?”

Stiles snaps out his quiet moment and looks over to Derek.  “Dude, this is me we’re talking about.  How else do you think I make my dad’s protein shakes look at least edible? Here—”

He reaches over Derek’s shoulder for the box of different dyes.  As he pulls back, Derek turns his face, and his stubble brushes against Stiles’ cheek.  He’d been conscious of how close they were, but just hadn’t realized it until he turns with it, his nose just centimeters from Derek’s.  A shiver runs down his spine, warmth flooding his face, but he ignores it and quickly steps back.  With a nervous smile on his face, Stiles presents the box to Derek.

The werewolf takes it, smirking.  Oh, that _asshole_.  “Thanks,” he says.  “I’m thinking red velvet top and bottom, and strawberry in the middle?”

Stiles nods, tongue between his teeth.  “Great,” he says. “Just one thing: I have no idea how to make red velvet cake.”

The look Derek gives him could be described as incredulous.  Stiles, subject to the same expression on a daily basis from literally everyone, prefers to think of it as confused in the face of the awe-inspiring reality that is him, Stiles, and he doesn’t even blink.

“Stiles, Derek says, purposefully slowly – and that’s just condescending. “It’s literally just chocolate cake with red food coloring.”

Stiles gapes. “Are you serious?” he asks. He gasps, clutching at his chest. It couldn’t be – Derek was lying, the stupid, lying werewolf.  “But they taste so different!”

“It tastes exactly the same.”

“They what’s the point?” Stiles nearly shouts.

“It’ll look better with green and white frosting,” Derek says, moving to grab the chocolate from the pantry.

“You put that box of powdered lies back!” Stiles cries.  “No goddamn way that chocolate is going anywhere near that cake!”

With an extremely put-upon sigh, Derek rolls his eyes and says, “Stiles, you need chocolate to make red velvet.”

“And I need a penis to be considered a man,” Stiles retorts.  Look at him, being all sarcastically accepting of gender and life choices in the face of baking crisis.  “That’s not how you make it!”

“Fine,” Derek says. He sets down the chocolate and the food coloring on the counter, and then turns to face Stiles with his arms folded.  “It’s how I make it. I’ll handle the red velvet layers. You make the batter for the strawberry cake.”

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze for a dew moments, his own hands on his hips.  Their pajama-clad standoff finally ends when Stiles huffs, flapping a hand in dismissal.

“Alright,” he relents. “But I’m not gonna call it red velvet.”

Derek smirks. “What’re you going to call it?”

“Abomination. Get the bowls out; I’ll get the flour.”

It’s to the sound of Derek’s laughter that they fall into their work.  Stiles takes out the strawberries – blatantly on display in the middle of the fridge, but somehow completely untouched – and reaches for any other ingredients he knows they’ll need.  They both are silent as they navigate around each other in the kitchen, comfortable with the same routine they’ve worked out all throughout the past several years as they’ve taken care of the pack.  Despite what Stiles had said earlier, Derek wasn’t completely helpless when it came to cooking, and more often than not was his sous chef when Boyd wasn’t available.

Way back when Scott had first been bitten by a rogue alpha, Stiles had told Talia immediately. She’d definitely been surprised when Stiles showed up on their doorstep, said “Hey so you know how you all are werewolves?  Well one of your furry asses bit my best friend and now he’s going lunar too, so spill”, and then dumped Scott at her feet with all the dangerous attitude of a sixteen-year-old who thought that they really could have kept the whole wolfy “secret” better than that.

It wasn’t really her fault, though.  Stiles had figured it out back when he’d been in middle school with Cora.  The only major change was that his dad knew as well – and he hadn’t been that surprised either.  (“Well, that explains everything that Claudia had said.  Laura, you’re on file duty.”)  That, and Stiles was finally allowed to be part of the pack that he’d pretty much been a part of ever since he’d first fallen on Cora’s sandcastle in preschool and ended up with a faceful of grass.

There was a reason Scott had become Stiles’ best friend first, even if his mother had thought that it was good omen and set up babysitting playdates from that moment onward.

Despite the slightly new – and really actually amazing – family dynamic in his life, the only real change of consequence came in the form of Derek Hale.

Oh, and there was all the life-threatening bullshit that had gone down because of that rogue alpha that had bitten Scott, which had somehow morphed into a huge supernatural shitstorm that had lasted well into junior year, but at least they’d gotten new packmates from it, and learned that Scott and Cora were probably really bad at baking things.  Shocker. No, Stiles’ problem – what he dubbed the Derek Hale Problem™ – had unfortunately only gotten worse.

Sure, he’d known Derek beforehand, thanks to the several times Laura or Talia had been tasked with babysitting him at the Hale house.  And yeah, he’d idolized the guy as a sixteen-year-old, because nineteen-year-old Derek had been such a stoic joy to be around.  Honestly, Stiles would have believed that the general werewolf grumpiness clouded around all magical creatures if not for the shining sun that is Talia Hale.  Turns out in the end that it had just been a teenage shifter thing, because Cora was the same way. (And Jackson.  Douche.)

So Stiles hadn’t known Derek well before joining the pack (officially).  Afterwards, though, well, he’d definitely fallen far off the deep end, and not counting that time they’d been trapped in a pool for two hours until Peter had rescued them from the evil clutches of lizard-Jackson. (Actually, that event had kind of led to the problem.  Being pressed up against a wet Derek Hale did that to a person.)

The point being, Stiles is attracted to Derek.  And no one can really blame him – what with the fact that while he can sometimes be a pretentious asshole, Derek genuinely cares so strongly for his family and friends that it leaves Stiles with his breath caught in his throat and his foot in his mouth.  The man’s at his house at five-thirty in the morning to bake a cake for his mother, for chrissake.

And that’s not even mentioning his _appearance_. Sure, it makes Stiles feel a little creepy when he thinks about Derek objectively, but Derek is _hot_.  Oh god, is Derek hot.  Stiles spends more time than he’s willing to admit thinking about the man’s jawline alone, always covered with that five o’clock shadow and sharp enough to cut stone. And don’t get him started on that _ass_ , those _shoulders_.

Stiles glances over at Derek in his wifebeater, and seriously, he should not be thinking about getting thrown over Derek’s bare shoulders when he’s right next to the man.

He still remembers the first time he’d seen Derek’s eyes flash blue, and just the thought of it takes his breath away.  It had been after the first pack meeting when Scott was bitten.  He doesn’t even remember what he’d said, but he’d made Derek laugh, and somehow that had made the werewolf lose just a little bit of control. Sideburns sprouting, and eyebrows threatening to disappear; Stiles made him do that a lot.  He likes that he’s able to do it, too, that he makes Derek that comfortable.  It’s almost as if —

“Stiles!” Derek says, his fingers snapping in front of his face.

Stiles jumps where he stands next to the counter.  He’d been staring into the bowl of half-mixed dry ingredients, as if the swirls of flour and baking soda were about give him the answers to the reasons his heart was such an idiot.  As if his heart ever really wanted to snap back to reality.  He shakes his head.

“Yeah?” he says, blinking over at Derek as his vision refocuses.

“You were really quiet there for a moment,” says Derek, the corner of his mouth quirking a little. “You were scaring me.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, only grimaces a little.  “Sorry, I was thinking.”

Derek grunts. “That’s not reassuring,” he teases. He glances up from where he’s measuring out the cocoa powder – damn him – and quirks an eyebrow at Stiles. “What about?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Stiles says. He looks down at the strawberries on the cutting board and shrugs.  “Not much, really.”

Derek snorts. “I seriously doubt that. Come on, what was it?”

“Nothing!” Stiles protests, smiling.  “I swear, just… about the pack, really.”  Not exactly a lie.

“Yeah?” Derek says. He cradles the bowl in the crook of his elbow as he turns to lean his hip against the counter, and wow, that should not have made Stiles’ face heat up, but it really did.

The man makes a gesture for Stiles to continue – and it’s almost as if he’s actually interested. Well, of course he is, Stiles thinks to himself.  They _are_ pack.  Derek continues to stir his bowl, watching Stiles intently.

Stiles racks his mind for another near-truth.  He’s gotten better at it since he’d learned about the biological lie detectors that occupied most of his waking life (his father included, more or less). See, unlike Cora, Stiles doesn’t admit defeat at the first flash of red eyes.

Perks of being a human, pack or not.

“Just… Christmas tomorrow, and the pack dinner tonight… I’ve gotten used to it. And now that I’m going to the police academy, and taking online classes, I won’t have to leave for another semester somewhere else.  I’m… happy, you know?”

Wow, that actually hadn’t been a lie.

Derek nods. “So… you’ve decided to go into detective work?”

Stiles shrugs again, reaching back for the bowl of dry ingredients before he turns to face Derek. “P.I. work, yeah,” he admits. “I’ll probably end up doing shifts down at the station anyway, knowing Dad.  And your sister.  The point is, I’m definitely staying.”  He smirks at Derek.  “Were you worried I was going to leave the pack?”

He expects a laugh, but Derek’s face falls almost immediately.  “Not once,” he says, and it sounds almost like a vow, so serious that Stiles can’t even respond.  Derek places the bowl back on the counter as Stiles gapes.  He clears his throat.  “Pass the eggs, Stiles.”

“What?” Stiles says dumbly.  “Oh, right.”

He passes the carton over, and then glances at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “Um, you know,” he starts, before he clears his throat.  “Uh – I, uh – I just thought, when I was thinking about the dinner tonight, uh. I, uh, I just… I don’t know, it feels really familiar, and—” and why is he still talking? “—I’m just, um. I’m glad you’re here. It makes things different. I like it.”

When he glances over at Derek, he swears he sees something like a blush, but the werewolf just smirks instead.  “What’s different? Stiles, I’ve lost count of how many times you and I have been up at the ass crack of dawn, cooking for those idiots after full moons.”  As if to prove his point, he passes the carton of eggs back just as Stiles starts to reach blindly for them.

Stiles snorts a laugh, and suddenly he doesn’t feel nervous anymore.  “Yeah, I bet it feels worse than a hangover, doesn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Derek says.  “But it’s not pleasant.”

“Then why would you wake up early to cook?” Stiles shoots back.

“Who else would keep you from burning down the house?” Derek says, and there’s something in his voice that almost doesn’t sound like a joke.  “Besides, I like cooking with you.”

And just like that, Stiles’ face is flushing again.  He swallows, turning his attention back to his half-formed cake batter.

There it is: the other change from high school.  And Stiles doesn’t just mean ages – yeah, Derek can drink now.  Stiles could legally have sex now, if he felt so inclined – and oh god does he feel inclined, if lacking the means to actually go out and obtain sex.  Instead, he indulges occasionally in the former.  If the werewolves are all gonna feel crappy the morning after full moons, then Stiles is sure as hell gonna join them the best he can.  Get possessed by an evil spirit and nearly die a few times and alcohol suddenly doesn’t seem like a major misdemeanor anymore.

But no, the change Stiles is thinking about now is how his huge, obvious, and probably painfully pathetic crush on Derek has become something more than that. More than a crush, he means. No, it had become a force heavier than gravity, drawing stiles closer to the man as if magnetic attraction was just a gentle push and not the reason planets didn’t go flying into the sun. Stiles had flown straight to its core, and it burned the ways stars set the sky on fire, only less distant and quieter than the storm outside.

For a while, Stiles had kept it tight behind his only defense of sarcasm and flannel shirts, but this morning he found it leaking through all the cracks.  All of them.

Stupid werewolves and their pajama pants and wrinkled wifebeaters in the middle of winter, with their stupid biceps and crazy stubble.

It was about twenty minutes later – a little after six – as Stiles and Derek are just putting the three pans of batter into the oven when the front door opens.

“Christ, it’s a storm out there,” mutters a voice down the hall, before announcing loudly, “Stiles, I’m home!”

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles says. He closes the oven door and wipes his hands on his pants as his dad walks into the room.

The Sheriff in brushing snow off his shoulders, his boots tracking slush down the hallway. He opens his arms for a hug, still, and asks, “Are you baking?  Morning, Derek.” He releases his son to extend a hand towards the werewolf standing by the counter.

“Sheriff,” Derek says, smiling – although Stiles can hear that weird nervousness Derek always gets around his father, no matter how close they are already.  The werewolf takes the man’s hand and pulls him into a hug. They pat once, twice, before separating. “Sorry for showing up so early, it was a bit of an emergency.”

“Emergency?” the Sheriff repeats, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline as he looks back at Stiles.

“By threat of Laura,” Stiles supplies.

“Ah,” his father says.

It really does explain everything.

“Hence,” Stiles continues, “the baking.  No touching!” He bats at his father’s hand and the Sheriff draws away from the empty bowls still carrying the last drops of batter. He looks mildly affronted. Far too offended, really, for the situation.  Almost as if Stiles had just told him vegetables were a genuine necessity in the food pyramid, or some other health travesty in his father’s mind.  Or that water was wet.  “You’ll get some at dinner tonight,” Stiles says.  “Raw batter is bad for you.  Salmonella and all that.”  He flaps a hand around at the aforementioned bacteria that’s probably floating around in his kitchen somewhere.

The front door slams closed again, just as the Sheriff opens his mouth to respond. He apparently changes his mind and says instead, “Malia’s here.”

Not that she needs announcing, as she bursts into the room a second later.  Her hair is falling out of the loose bun she’d obviously hastily applied, only to be torn down the moment she sets foot in the kitchen. Frazzled, her hair drops down to the khaki shoulders of her deputy uniform, snow dusting the floor around her, still stuck in the strands atop her head.  She sighs as she shakes some more out of it, and then surveys the room before her.

“Sorry I was behind. _Someone_ —” she glares pointedly at the Sheriff “—dropped a stack of files for sorting on my desk just as I was about to leave.”

The Sheriff, because Stiles had to receive his lack of self-preservation from somewhere, only arches an unimpressed brow.  “And did you sort them?”

Malia shrugs. “I dropped them with Laura as she was coming in.”

Ignoring the exasperated glare the Sheriff sends her, she zones in on the counter. “Oh, cake!”  Before anyone is able to react, she’s stolen Stiles’ bowl of strawberry batter leftovers and started to scoop it up with her fingers.

“Thanks, Stiles!” she says joyfully, before she promptly exits stage left to the living to sit on the couch.

“How come she gets some?” the Sheriff whines, and Stiles would call him out on it, but instead he just rolls his eyes.  He opens his mouth to reply, but Derek beats him to it.

“Werewolf metabolism doesn’t get salmonella,” the man supplies.  He has a thoughtful look on his face, but there’s this glint in his eye that makes Stiles grin through his surprise.  The Sheriff only gapes.

“Were _coyote_ ,” Stiles corrects, and he laughs when his father directs his annoyance towards him.

“Both of you,” the man says, pointing, “are going to be the death of me.”

“No, pretty sure we’re saving you.  Salmonella and everything,” says Stiles, smirking.

Derek huffs a sigh, as if _he_ were the oldest in the room, despite his earlier contribution to Stiles’ general campaign for chaos. Honestly, if he didn’t want to be associated with him, he shouldn’t have helped.  “Why are you here anyway, Malia?” he asks, like the situation wasn’t completely normal.  Then again, she tended to spend most of her free time at the Hale house anyway; more so than the rest of the pack, at least, as she’d bonded with the family she hadn’t known existed for sixteen years of her life.

“Peter was being weird again,” she calls back through the house.

Well, except for when that bonding was mildly psychotic.  Ever since they’d found her in the woods a few years ago, Peter had fluctuated drastically between a “hip” parental figure (his words, not Stiles’) and a near-insane overprotective father.  His claws made Chris Argent’s arsenal of semi-auto weapons look like toys whenever he felt the need to remind any threats against Malia of their general mortality.

Honestly, if the man ever lost any part of his family, Stiles would fear the apocalypse for the amount of carnage Peter would carry out.

At the sound of the TV turning on, the Sheriff shakes his head.  “I don’t know how’s she still awake.  She was helping Talia all day before her shift.”

“I’m eating!” Malia shouts. Good argument, Stiles concludes, but if she hadn’t been a were, he’d also be more than a little concerned.

Talia Hale in full-scale Christmas-mode is the stuff of nightmares, and unlike Stiles, Malia is a full-time deputy on top of it.  Malia had thought that school after high school was stupid, and while Stiles is inclined to agree with her sometimes, he’d opted to get his background in forensic sciences and psychology at Berkley.  On the other hand, Malia had enrolled straight into the police academy, and four months later, was kicking ass alongside Laura and his father, while spending her downtime sorting papers – _without_ the need for extensive math.

Sometimes, when Stiles had been up until around this time in the morning working on an essay for a class he had in an hour, he’d envied her.  But he’d be alongside them in a few months, arguably with the same amount of skill now, comparing his training with their general werewolfy/coyote senses.

Man, they were so cool.

Stiles included.

The Sheriff was shaking his head again, only fondly.  “Well, I’m hitting the sack.”  He raises his voice,” You’d better get some sleep too, Deputy Tate.  We’re going back to your house for dinner.”

“Yeah, boss,” comes Malia’s reply.  “Got it!”

The Sheriff laughs softly, already backing out of the kitchen.  “Wake me up for lunch, would you, Stiles?” he asks. “It was nice to see you here, son,” he says to Derek.

“You too, sir,” nods Derek.

When his father has left, Stiles throws an arm around Derek’s shoulders, and Derek relaxes into his weight.  He frowns a little at the human latched to his back, though, and Stiles fights down the urge to blush at their close proximity to each other.  Derek’s face suddenly changes, his brows furrowing, and Stiles lets go.

He clears his throat, looking down at his feet.  “You alright?” he asks.  He glances up at Derek.

The stupid werewolf has another smirk on his face, but he’s nodding.  “It was really quiet without you here all semester,” he says, arms crossed as he looks at Stiles.  His eyes sweep down for a moment, and Stiles’ mind short-circuits just a little. “I’m glad you’re staying.”

Stiles scoffs. “Dude, where else would I go? We’re pack.  Even Lydia’s planning on coming back after school, when she’s able to blackmail half the mathematical world into letting her work on theorems from home or whatever it is she does.”

Derek’s brows furrow again.  “You sure you don’t want to go back to a campus?”

“Dude, _yes_.  I couldn’t stand it,” Stiles says vehemently.  “God, it was torture, not being able to see everyone.  If Lydia didn’t have Danny with her, I don’t know how she’d be able to stand it all the way in New York.”

Derek nods. He leans against the counter again, thinking.  “You know,” he starts, “Laura used to want to go to New York.  Said she’d take me with her.  That was back in high school, though.  There’s no way I’d be able to go now.”

Stiles tilts his head. “Why not?”

Derek shrugs, but then he looks back up at Stiles, and there his eyes go again, flashing that brilliant blue.  Stiles’ breath catches in his throat, as Derek’s mouth curves softly before his eyes fade back to hazel.

He says, “I found something I wanted to stay here for.”  His voice is quiet, and it carries across the empty kitchen almost silently, the sound of the television in the other room filling space around them.

Oh god, Stiles realizes, Malia can probably hear his heart right now.  And Derek can too, and oh god.

This morning is unraveling everything he’d ever thought he’d known.

Stiles swallows. “So,” he says, way too loudly, “We’ve got about an hour.  What do you want to do?”

Derek, always less awkward than Stiles, which, compared to how he was back in high school, is actually fairly surprising, smiles a little.  Stiles nearly breathes a sigh in relief when he realizes that they’re letting the moment pass.  At least, he is. Derek will probably bring it up later to bite him in the ass.

And isn’t that just a grand image?

“Well,” Derek starts, his smirk getting sharper, “we still need to make the frosting. And there’s a bowl of leftover red velvet batter to eat.  That is, if you’re not still worried about salmonella.”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at the werewolf, crossing his arms as he leans his hip against the counter. A cloud of heat releases from the oven, and it drifts over the room.  It seems to converge around Derek’s figure, and Stiles swears there’s this haze around the man’s bare arms as they both relax back into the comfort that they’ve found in each other.  It feels safe, and the storm outside keeps covering the windows with white, closing them away even further.

God, Stiles is so far gone it’s not even funny.

“That is not red velvet,” he says petulantly, and the smile that comes to his mouth is involuntary. He mock-glares at the bowl, fighting to make his mouth at least a little more serious.  “That is blood chocolate cake.  Only explanation.”

“So pretentious,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.  “Shut up, bitch, it’s fucking cake.”

Stiles gapes. His arms uncross in his surprise, and he stares at Derek.  “You ass!” he finally shouts, laughing as he takes a swipe at Derek’s bare arm.

Derek shoves the hand away, but Stiles can see the broad smile still plastered to his face. With ears tipped red, Derek says, “Give me the bowl of blood chocolate, you dork.”

 

It’s about another hour and a half before the cakes are out of the oven, the frosting has been made and spread across the tower of baked batter, and on the counter stands a display of the absolute most amount of Christmas spirit in the form of three-tiered, green-white-and-red-painted pastry that Stiles has ever seen.  Really, if he weren’t so proud of it, he’d probably puke. Going by the look on Derek’s face, he assumes the werewolf feels the same.

He’s standing with his hands on his hips as he looks at their creation.  His jaw is slack, but it doesn’t seem to be in amazement. More like he’s just thinking. His hair has traces of flour in it from when he’d suggested they try and clean up a little and Stiles had tossed a handful of powder at him instead.  He looks more adorable that way, in Stiles’ opinion.

The man’s forehead suddenly crunches up in scrutiny.  Stiles can’t help the small grin on his face at the expression.

“We’re finished,” Derek says all of a sudden, as if it’s the deciding factor.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Duh,” he says. “Thank you, captain obvious werewolf.”

Derek snorts. “You know, just adding ‘werewolf’ to a reference doesn’t make it any more iconic.”

“You laughed.”

Derek shoves Stiles’ shoulder.  “Shut up.” He looks around himself now, as if looking for something.

Stiles tilts his head. “What’s up?”

“Where’s my… jacket?”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “Seriously?  Dude, you came here in your pajamas.  You’re insane.”

Derek look down at himself, at the frosting that’s striped up his bare arms, his color-stained wifebeater, and his rumpled pants.  Still barefoot, just like when he walked through the door.  Derek look up, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Walking home in the snow’s gonna suck.”

The amusement in Stiles’ chest starts to deflate.  “You have to go?”

“Well, yeah,” Derek says easily.  “I need sleep. And then I have to get ready for tonight.”

Stiles nods, even though he doesn’t want to, because it makes sense.  But still, he’s not ready for this morning, this extended moment between the two of them, to end.

“Are you not gonna help clean up?  Rude,” he says, and he probably sounds like a brat, but whatever.

“And have a repeat performance of last time?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised and pointedly looking at where this undoubtedly flour on Stiles’ clothes as well.  “No thanks.”

“Hey, I did this for you,” Stiles says, grinning.

It must’ve been something he’d said, because Derek’s face suddenly goes soft.  His brows relax and his mouth curves in a small smile. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did.   Thanks.”

And with that, Stiles can feel the moment coming to an end.  He swallows, and then he nods.  He walks beside Derek out of the kitchen.

The floor feels soft beneath his feet, the wood bending with his weight.  He can feel the heat of Derek at his side. Silent, they pass the wall clock in the hallway.  It reads seven thirty-two.

Funny, it seems to Stiles. It feels strange, walking down this hallway, right now, in this finale to their moment.  Somewhere, sometime in the past two hours, something had changed. Stiles can’t tell for the life of him what it is.  Sometime between when Derek had appeared on his doorstep, just like he’d done countless times over the past four years, and now, Stiles can feel something in the back of his mind, something he’s just realizing.  Approaching it feels almost dangerous, and Stiles doesn’t have the nerve to try. He’s not sure he wants to.

They come to a stop at the door.  Stiles hesitates, so Derek is the one that reaches out to turn the handle.

“Oh,” Derek says, looking out at the lawn.  “The storm’s calmed down.  Huh.”

He almost sounds disappointed.  Stiles doesn’t look at him to check, feels too scared to.

“Well,” Derek says, moving forward to step out onto the porch.  “I’ll see you tonight.  You’ll bring the cake?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, finally looking up.  “Of course, dude, I’m not a—” The sight of Derek makes him catch his breath. The man looks… _sad_.  His brows are creased deeper now, and his mouth is hanging open a little, his bunny teeth peeking out from beneath his top lip.

And as quickly as Stiles glimpses it, the expression is gone.  Derek closes his mouth, relaxing his face into a smile. Even to Stiles, it looks a little strained, awkward.

“Bye, Stiles,” Derek says, and he backs over the threshold onto the porch.

“Derek, wait!” Stiles suddenly says, grabbing the werewolf by the wrist and tugging him around.

Maybe it’s the heat of Derek’s wrist in his hand, or the way he feels a pulse jump beneath his fingertips.  Or maybe it’s the way Derek’s eyes snap to Stiles’, wide and shocked and nervous and shining with a flash of what Stiles recognizes as hopefulness.  Maybe it’s just that Stiles pulls his head out of his ass and gets that little bit of _sense_ to get over his dumb fears.  It doesn’t matter. What matters it that Stiles finally realizes that they’re both idiots.

“You stupid werewolf,” he says, before he tugs Derek back.

Their lips meet harder than he’d expected, because Stiles really hadn’t thought it through, but Derek brings his hands up to Stiles’ neck immediately and tilts his head and – _oh_ , so this is what a kiss feels like.  It feels like Derek’s hands against his skin, his breath releasing from his nose against Stiles’ cheek and his chest pressing against Stiles’.  It feels like his thumbs brushing along Stiles’ jaw, the way Stiles’ eyes close as Derek’s unshaved stubble scratches and pulls at the skin around Stiles’ mouth.  It feels like Derek pressing himself closer to Stiles’ lips as Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and they try to connect themselves through more than just where their mouths touch.  It feels like years incoming, longer, and Stiles doesn’t want it to end.

But Stiles can’t help himself, and he has to say something, so he breaks off first.

“You weren’t ever doing to say anything, were you?” he asks breathlessly.  He feels the heat in his cheeks and thinks he probably looks ridiculous with blushing skin and bitten lips, but Derek’s looking at him with wide eyes shining brilliantly blue and a stunned mouth, and Stiles thinks he looks gorgeous, so finally decides that he can’t look much worse anyway and blinks at Derek as he waits for a response.

The werewolf answers by kissing him again.  This time is harder, longer, and Stiles feels Derek’s tongue swipe over his bottom lip and he can’t hold back the small whimper that causes.

He pulls away again and breathes, “You idiot, you should have said—”

Derek cuts him off with another kiss, and Stiles groans, half in frustration and half not.

“I’ve wanted this for years— College was hell— Would you just—”

“Stiles,” Derek says in that tone that Stiles finally realizes is Derek’s weird form of fondness, and why did it take that long?  “Shut up and let me kiss you.”

“Wait,” Sties says, and he places a hand on Derek’s chest.  “How long have you– How long?”

“Have I been in love with you?” Derek asks, and the words knock Stiles’ heart through his ribs with the sheer amount of earnest honesty in the man’s voice.  “Ever since that time in high school when you helped Cora get ready for her first date with Isaac and I realized you would do anything for her.

“Really?” Stiles asks, because of _course_ Derek wouldn’t fall for him because of some badass moment that every other member of the pack has accomplished throughout high school.  Of course it’s because Stiles was just trying to be _decent person_ for two of his friends. And then his eyes go wide, because— “That long, really?  We could have been kissing for that long!”

Derek blushes, “Well, I mean – I just, uh…”

It’s a good thing Stiles knows him so well.  “You just have a really hard time dealing with strong emotions, I get it.”

“I don’t!” Derek protests, but they both know it’s actually true.

Stiles raises a hand to place against Derek’s cheek, the other still around his shoulders. Despite himself, Derek presses his face into the touch, and the tenderness makes Stiles realize everything else. He feels Derek’s heartbeat against his own, the strength of his arms moving to wrap around his waist. He feels the heat between their bodies and their breath that’s clouding before their eyes.  He realizes that he really is gone, and that what he’s feeling is love.

“It’s alright,” he says, because it is, and his voice goes soft as he leans back in, eyes fluttering closed.  “I like it when you make those weird faces when you’re really happy.  And for the record, I’d do anything for you too.”

“Like hold me up in a pool for two hours?” Derek asks.  It’s barely a murmur between them.

“Oh god, don’t remind me.”

They kiss again, softer, just barely a breath, and Derek’s arms squeeze Stiles tightly before he starts to let go.

“What? No, wait, where are you going?” Stiles asks.  His eyes snap open in surprise, and he fights for a moment to keep his hands on Derek’s shoulders.

“I still have to go home, Stiles,” Derek says, smiling.

“No you don’t,” Stiles says immediately.  “I still have some of your clothes upstairs, from…”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him – damn, those Hale eyebrows – and his smile grows wider. “Maybe next time.” –and there sure as hell is gonna be a next time– “I’ll pick you up at three, okay?”

“First date and I’m already meeting the family?  Wow, Hale, you move fast.”

“Stiles.”

“And the cake?” Stiles asks, because he’s having too much fun.

“What else?” Derek replies, rolling his eyes.  “Get some sleep, Stiles.”

As he starts to walk away, Stiles calls, “You too, crazy mister ‘I-can-walk-in-the-snow-barefoot’. Don’t get frostbite! I prefer my boyfriends with all of their limbs!”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek calls back, and now that Stiles can hear it, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over hearing the amusement that clearly paints that statement.

“Love you!”

It’s to the sound of Derek’s laughter that he makes it to the street before he finally turns away, his flannel pants fluttering in the light wind and the snow swirling around his reddened arms.

Stiles watches until the man reaches the third house over before closing the door. He takes a moment, back pressed against the door, just to breathe.  His heart is still pounding in his chest, and he can’t seem to get it to stop. It’s like ecstasy is flooding his lungs and he’s breathing smoke through a cloud.  The air threatens to burst out of his ribcage as soon as it finishes burning through his heart.  A few minutes later, he realizes he has a huge grin on his face that he can’t get rid of, so he pushes off the wood.

He makes his way to the living room, passing by that explosion of color on the kitchen counter. It’s a mess to clean up for later, so he leaves it for now.

In contrast, the living room is dark.  Grey light filters through the windows, just starting to brighten with the morning through the snow and clouds outside.  The television is still on, but the volume is low.  Stiles can see Malia’s sleeping form on the couch in the dark, alight by the dull colors flooding from the TV.  He takes a seat next to her feet, careful not to wake her.

It proves useless when she rolls over anyway, blue eyes shining as she blinks herself back to consciousness.  They fade back to their usual shade in the dark as she focuses on Stiles.

“You smell happy,” she comments.  Stiles can see her nose wrinkle as she rolls over, pushing her face into the couch cushions. “It’s gross.”

Stiles can’t even bring himself to care, because he _is_ happy. He claps his hand down on Malia’s calf, still smiling.

Malia looks up at him again.  “Glad you two finally worked your stuff out.  It was painful to watch.”

At that, Stiles can’t help but laugh.  “Yeah,” he says, still breathless.  “I’m glad too.”

Malia’s already fallen back asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, so please let me know of any typos.
> 
>  
> 
> [12 Days of Sterek](http://12daysofsterek.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://renokus.tumblr.com)


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